


let it always be known that I was who I am

by Raven (singlecrow)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:40:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlecrow/pseuds/Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years. Four psychiatrists. Five outfits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let it always be known that I was who I am

Above the chaos:

("Whose bright idea was it to give your grandfather a _heart attack_ for his birthday?"

"Sorry, Mum..."

"A kissogram! Really! And as for you" – she was advancing across the room – "_young lady_...")

The old man said, "Don't go."

"I'm still here," she said, and put a hand on his.

"You're not really a nun, are you?" asked the old man.

"No, I'm not," Amy said, and leaned over to kiss him. His skin was light and delicate as paper. "Do you mind?"

His gaze followed the movement of her hair as she splashed it back across her shoulders. "Not at all," he said, dreamily, and leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"Happy birthday," Amy said, and shook her head impatiently at the woman wagging her red-enamel-tipped finger. "I'm going, I'm _going_. Don't think you don't still pay full whack."

On her way, she stopped by the toilets, whipped off the wimple and stuffed it in her handbag, took a brush to her hair and a mascara wand to her eyes, and stepped into the sunshine without missing a beat. It was convenient, the old folks' home – it had a name like Green Valley or Sunshine Times or It's Not That Bloody Awful Honest, Amy couldn't remember – for the hospital.

Dr. Crawford said, hands clasped on the table in front of him, "You're late."

"And you're ugly," Amy said, thoughtfully, peering at him, "but I don't hold it against you."

"There's no call for that," he said, and peered at her over his glasses; his eyes were so pale blue, they seemed frosted.

"Unlike you, I was out earning an honest living," she said, acidly. "I'm here only because my aunt asked, and she didn't say anything about punctuality."

"Amy," he said, and with a slight pang of fear, she realised he was trying to be kind. "I want to discuss your medication."

"I don't," she said, and thought about biting the skin of his hands, the white flesh giving way to her teeth like an apple.

*

 

Rory had taken it worse than most when she'd leapt out of his cake; he'd had to have a lie down in the upstairs room of the pub, and she'd gone up to apologise and things had sort of gone from there. He'd said he'd liked it back then, though; that it had been part of why he'd fallen for her. He had a nerve to walk through the suburban splendour of Leadworth village green and say what he was saying right now.

"Do you have to be a kissogram? Couldn't you..."

"Do something else?" she said, sharply. "Do I get to set my own hours? I do. Do I make enough money to support myself? I do. Do I have anyone else to do that for me? I do not. And above all things, am I not unutterably gorgeous?"

"Yeah," he said, and Amy hoped that would deal with that, but today was maybe his day for thinking too much; he looked up and started again. "It's just... you. I thought you'd maybe have. You know. By now."

Amy said, "If you were going to say _grow up_..."

"I wasn't" – but she didn't believe him.

"And if you were going to throw in something about fairy-tales, about believing that people come out of boxes in the garden and demand custard, and how I should have grown out of that by now..."

"I wasn't, love," he said, with eyes wide, and she felt a little sick and believed him.

"Do you have to walk through the centre of town dressed like that, though?" he added after a while.

"Yes," she said, and put her hands up to adjust her bun. The pencil skirt was a bit uncomfortable, but the tights were her favourite, sheer, with a seam. She had big glasses with clear lenses for the occasion.

"Where's the apple?" Rory asked, a little sourly.

"The children give the teacher the apple, Rory, she doesn't bring her own" – but she relented and got it out of the bag, thought about it for a moment, gave it to him.

That got a smile. He bit into it and said, in a different tone, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," she said.

*

 

"I used to have an outfit like that," she told the nurse. "Mine was a bit, ah. Skimpier, you know."

"Take your medicine, dear," said the nurse. She was a stranger, and Amy was pleased; if she were going to do what she had done, she might as well do it when she was in London for the day, buying costumes and carrying them home on the Tube when she felt funny about the approaching train, and not at home where she knew every nurse, doctor, and other human in the place.

"You should ignore the notes, when they send them over," she said, looking out at the sterility of the ward, the clean lines of white on white. "They'll keep talking about delusions I have. I'm not delusional, I really did meet a man when I was seven who came into my house and ate fish fingers in custard. He wanted apples first, then bacon. He said, 'you're Scottish, fry something'. I was seven, I didn't understand national stereotypes yet, so it probably really did happen."

The nurse had wandered away; she was straightening the sheets on the other beds, ticking things off on a clipboard.

Amy said, "You might ask why I'm sat here, if I'm not delusional. I'm not really sure myself. I get a bit sad sometimes. My mum and dad, you know – I think they must be in the notes as well. At least they ought to be. My aunt worries.

"I wish he would come back."

"Take your medicine, dear," said the nurse.

"I will," Amy said, "but it won't make anything not true."

*

 

"I'm feeling much, much better," she said.

"That's why you've not got out of bed for a week, is it," Rory said, from the other side of the room somewhere; face-down on her pillows, she couldn't exactly see him very well. From the small, industrious sounds he was making, she guessed he was cleaning the mess she'd left in the room before she'd gone away.

"I love my bed," Amy said, with absolute truth. "I love it a lot. I want us to get reacquainted. I do feel better."

"Amy," he said, urgently, and she rolled over suddenly, peering through the translucent layers of sheets. "I want you to know I'll do anything to make you feel better. Anything. I'll fetch for you, I'll carry for you, I'll play Raggedy Doctor with you."

"And will you believe me?" she asked, with the bite in her voice. "Will you believe me when I tell you what happened to me?"

He sat on the edge of her bed. "Yes," he said, and for a delicious moment it was that simple; it was truth ringing in the air like a struck bell.

"Really?" she said, quietly.

"Yes. I won't promise to know how to understand it or what to do."

She thought about that. "That's fair enough," she said, after a while. After another moment, without either of them really thinking about it, he got into bed with her and they snuggled down together.

"I really do feel better," she said again.

"I'm glad," Rory said, and she laughed.

"I take it you don't mind me doing what I do, any more?" she asked.

"I mind if you're sad," he said. "And I meant it," he added, with the same quietness in his voice. "I'll do whatever it takes."

"Will you dress up in my French maid's outfit?" she said hopefully.

"Yes," he said, and started taking off his boots.

*

There was a particular noise people only ever made when approached by a beautiful woman dressed like a policewoman – a sort of strangulated shriek and delighted yell all mixed together. Amy sat down, crossed her legs, uncrossed them again, leaned over and kissed the young man in the red T-shirt.

What the hell. She twirled her truncheon and kissed his girlfriend, too.

He looked a little scared, and she grinned. He was tall, with dark hair and glasses, dressed with artless care, and reminded her a little of someone. "Please don't be a stripper," he said, with comedic sincerity, and she laughed.

"Kissogram," she said. "Happy birthday. Do you want another kiss?"

His girlfriend started to laugh. She kissed him again, and his friends cheered, and then they were all clapping him on the back and asking her if she'd like to stay for a cider. And she did like to stay, and she had a second and a third, because it was the last gig of the day, of the week, and the joy of it all was getting into her blood.

"Do you like it?" asked the girlfriend, in the quiet of the winding-down of the party; they were outside, now, taking in the last burn of the evening sun.

"Yes," Amy said. "I love it."

Rory met her when it was time to go home, and she grinned and pinched his bum; he dodged her, and she chased him down shaking her truncheon, and when they got to her gate they had to stop because they were laughing so much, and she sat on the old rotting swing and pushed herself off.

"Careful!" Rory shouted, as she swung perilously close to the bar. "Your head!"

"Shut up," she called, feeling herself start to soar. "There's nothing wrong with my head!"

"Not now," he agreed. "But if you fall and hit it..."

She jumped. Her hair rose like a halo, her body arched, and she was rolling over and over on top of him on the grass. They came to a standstill and lay there, breathing hard.

After a moment, Rory looked into the mess in the cabbage patch and said, "If he never comes back..."

"Doesn't matter," Amy said. "There was nothing wrong with my head."

"I know," Rory said, and she kissed him, and what she said was true.


End file.
